Did she think herself his only responsibility? Did she think he had time to sit about, composing poems to a woman he hadn’t even chosen for a wife? She’d been assigned to him, for God’s sake. In the bloody cradle.

He turned to her, his eyes piercing hers. “Very well, Lady Amelia. What are your expectations of me?”

She seemed flummoxed by the question, stammering some sort of nonsense he doubted even she understood. Good God, he didn’t have time for this. He’d got no sleep the night before, his grandmother was even more of an aggravation than usual, and now his affianced bride, who had heretofore never uttered a peep beyond the usual claptrap about the weather, was suddenly acting as if he had obligations toward her.

Beyond marrying her, of course. Which he fully intended to do. But good Lord, not this afternoon.

He rubbed his brow with his thumb and middle finger. His head had started to ache.

“Are you all right?” Lady Amelia inquired.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

“At least as well as I was in the drawing room,” he heard her mutter.

And really, that was too much. He lifted his head, pinned her with a stare. “Shall I kiss you again?”

She said nothing. But her eyes grew round.

He let his gaze fall upon her lips and murmured, “It seemed to make the both of us far more agreeable.”

Still she said nothing. He decided to take that as a yes.

Chapter 5

No!” Amelia exclaimed, jumping back a step.

And if she hadn’t been so discombobulated by his sudden swerve into amorous territory, she would have greatly enjoyed his discombobulation when he stumbled forward, his lips finding nothing but air.

“Really?” he drawled, once he’d regained his footing.

“You don’t even want to kiss me,” she said, backing up another step. He was starting to look dangerous.

“Indeed,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “Just as I don’t like you.”

Her heart dropped about a foot. “You don’t?” she echoed.

“According to you,” he reminded her.

She felt her skin burn with embarrassment—the sort only possible when one’s own words were being tossed in one’s face. “I don’t want you to kiss me,” she stammered.

“Don’t you?” he asked, and she wasn’t sure how he managed it, but they weren’t quite so far apart any longer.

“No,” she said, fighting to maintain her equilibrium. “I don’t, because…because…” She thought about this—thought frantically about it, because there was no way her thoughts could be anything approaching calm and rational in such a position.

And then it was clear.

“No,” she said again. “I don’t. Because you don’t.”

He froze, but just for a moment. “You think I don’t wish to kiss you?”